But I Digress

By Nichole Bernier

You’re writing a tense scene, really in the thick of it: An aging actress is holding a handful of pills. She’s been offered the role of the star’s mother, rather than that of the star.

She lifts glass of water toward her mascara-streaked face, pills cupped in her other hand. She will miss the feel of crystal. The reader is with you, waiting for that actress to throw back her head, give a final cry of hopelessness and say goodbye to all that.

But suddenly, you’re off.

You, the writer, cut away to backstory. And the reader, instead of getting the big gulp, gets an overdose of the actress’s memories of her grandfather’s pharmacy. The tactile joy of powders and jars, the unyielding grind of mortar and pestle. The social stress of classmates seeking free candy. Even a short rant on the demise of the neighborhood mom-and-pop pharmacies. By the end of the four-page digression, your reader has had a lovely romp through the economic rise of CVS, but can barely remember the actress and her pills.

Of course I’m not speaking from experience. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve had “Stay in the moment!” or “TOO MUCH DESCRIPTION” ever written in the margins by my agent or editors.

But let’s say, for the sake of argument, you do have a digression problem. I see you chafing at the word “problem,” so let’s call it a gift, instead. The first step, then, is admitting you have a gift.

In skilled hands, a digression can be an effective thing, lovely and looping and brilliant. It can reinforce a theme by juxtaposing a related event, and add depth to a scene by linking to an episode in a character’s past. It can offer poetic observations, scholarly extras, and sometimes just a nice break in the action. Moby Dick is chock full of them; whether or not you’re a fan of those leviathan asides, without them, Melville’s masterpiece would be just another fish tale (and probably half the length).

The best writers layer scene upon scene so well we’re not even aware that we’ve been diverted to another path. Less well done, and you need a truckload of breadcrumbs to lead you back into the flow of the story.

But know this: No matter how lyrical your prose or how insightful that jewelbox of an anecdote, when you cut away from the forward pace of the story, you do break the narrative tension.

So what’s the difference between a digression that’s effective, and one that isn’t?

Start by asking yourself some tough questions.

1)    What does this really add to the story, and is it necessary HERE?

2)    Do you use too much digression throughout the book? The last thing you want is the reader ticked off by yet another lengthy plot interruption. (“Oh, great. Just when it was getting good.”)

3)    Is it appropriate in this situation to cut away from the action? If a character stumbles upon something disturbing, he probably isn’t going to pause to provide a lengthy mental riff on the pictures on the wall. Unless, of course, you intend to make a statement about the character’s dissociative state.

4)    Be honest: As a reader, would you be tempted to skip ahead through this “boring part” and find out what happens next? Or, worse…

5)    By the time the digression comes in for a landing, were you so distracted by mortars and pestles that you forgot the actress was even about to do herself in? If so, goodbye, narrative tension.

So many authors make great use of digression, but in the end, I suspect it comes down to a matter of taste; some readers are just more willing than others to be led through the maze as a part of the story experience.

Originally appeared on Beyond the Margins on February 17, 2010.